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  As if he expected her to abandon her career while he pursued his.

  She beamed a smile at Jake. “Good for him. He’s a fabulous bassoonist.” And after a slight hesitation, “I’ll bet his wife is thrilled.”

  “I don’t know. Cleveland’s a far cry from San Francisco.”

  I don’t give a damn whether his mousy violinist wife likes Cleveland or not.

  She picked up her flute. “Can I get back to practicing? I’ve got a big concert next week, remember?”

  Jake’s dark eyes sparkled. “Right. A week from today we’ll be in London. I can hardly wait. All the top critics and managers will be there.”

  “What about the hotel rooms? No unlucky thirteen’s, I hope.”

  “Belinda, I’ve made your travel arrangements for years. No rooms on the thirteenth floor, no plane seats in row thirteen. I don’t know why you’re so fanatical about it. It’s only a number.”

  No, it’s not. She raised her flute and noodled a few notes.

  “I got an email from Guy St. Cyr’s manager this morning. Guy’s coming to the concert.”

  Guy St. Cyr. Renowned flute soloist. Her former teacher.

  Another heartbreak.

  “Jake, I really need to practice.”

  His frown returned and his eyes grew serious. “Okay, but there’s something we need to talk about.”

  At last, his real agenda. Jake hadn’t interrupted her practicing to tell her about Nick or discuss hotel reservations. “Well? What is it?”

  His face darkened and he cleared his throat. Damn, she hated that sound. The nervous tick grated on her ears worse than chirping crickets.

  “Look at this.” He thrust a newspaper at her. “It’s outrageous!”

  Her heart pounded. Had someone had written a negative article about her? She studied the huge headline: WOMAN DEAD IN LAKEVIEW HOLDUP. Relieved that it wasn’t some malicious article about her, she said, “That’s terrible, but is it so important you had to interrupt my practicing?”

  “Yes, damn it! Two black kids robbed a store, shot a cop and took a woman hostage. They found her later, badly injured. She died at the hospital. They never found the robbers.”

  Guilt-stricken, she said, “That poor woman. I’ll bet that’s why Detective Renzi ran off last night.” She pictured his craggy face, the jagged scar on his chin, his dark sexy eyes. An attractive man with a deep melodious voice. Intriguing, but she couldn’t afford romantic distractions now, not with the most important performance of her career coming up next week.

  “Renzi never called me back. Black-on-white crime gets all kinds of attention, but ordinary folks like you and me—”

  She laughed, the melodious trill she used when someone said something incredibly annoying. “I may be many things, Jake, but ordinary is not one of them. Belinda Scully is not ordinary.”

  He plucked at his dark beard with long skinny fingers. “I’d be the last person to call you ordinary. You’re an amazing person and a marvelous musician. The point is Renzi doesn’t seem to think an attack on a famous flute soloist is important enough to merit his attention.”

  “That’s fine by me. If my name’s in the report, some reporter will turn it into a big deal because—”

  “It is a big deal! It’s a big fucking deal when somebody tries to run you down—”

  “Damn it, Jake, I will not be portrayed as Little-Miss-Victim. You saw the sob stories they used to write.” She gave him the icy stare she used to quiet detractors. “That is not my image. We shouldn’t have bothered to report such a silly incident—”

  “It was not a silly incident. Someone tried to kill you!”

  His words pierced her like a dagger. “Stop it, Jake! You’re upsetting me. I can’t afford that now, not with the concert in London next week.” Not with all these nasty convergences. A car attack on the thirteenth anniversary. The day before Friday the 13th.

  What next? Everyone knew bad things came in threes.

  An icy chill wracked her. Thirteen years ago her brother, a talented composer with his whole life ahead of him, had died. Ever since she had secretly harbored the secret belief that she would die young too. Die before her time. Die before her musical ambitions came to fruition.

  “If Renzi doesn’t call today, I’ll go to the station and make him listen!” Jake stalked out of the room and slammed the door.

  Her heart pounded. Why were these horrible things happening now, just when she was on the brink of stardom?

  She hadn’t told Jake about the note she’d found on the front porch or the creepy message on her voicemail from a man saying he knew all her secrets. The raspy whisper had thrown her into a panic.

  Did he know why she’d left Juilliard and driven to New Jersey that day twelve years ago? No. How could he?

  No one knew about New Jersey. No one.

  ______

  Saturday, 14 October

  Jake entered the Creole cottage he shared with Dean Silva, inhaled mouthwatering aromas and hurried down a short center hall to the kitchen.

  “Home by four at the latest, huh?” Dean said without looking up, stirring something in a saucepan on the stove. “It’s almost six.”

  His stomach roiled with acid, a reflex reaction to the verbal zinger. He put his arms around Dean’s waist and nuzzled his neck. “I’m sorry, Dean. I was tending to last minute details for the London trip and lost track of time. You’ve been busy, too. Something smells fantastic.”

  Dean squirmed out of his embrace and slugged down some wine. “Not much else to do on a Saturday afternoon.”

  His unspoken words hung in the air: Without you. Jake grabbed the half-empty bottle of chardonnay on the counter, poured himself a glass and took two gulps. The wine hit his stomach with a painful sizzle.

  Dean plucked a fat blunt from an ashtray, took a hit and held the smoke in his lungs. After a moment he let it out and resumed stirring. “This is lemon butter sauce for the pecan-crusted trout.”

  Cooking was Dean’s passion. He loved trying elaborate new recipes. Well-worn cookbooks lined the counter: Julia Childs, James Beard and a recent one by New Orleans’ own Emeril Lagasse.

  “Yum. I can hardly wait.” Anything to placate his angry lover.

  Darkly handsome in a muscle T-shirt and tight jeans, lean and muscular from workouts at the health club, Dean held out the blunt with a lazy smile.

  He didn’t care much for pot, but took a quick hit to please Dean. The love of his life. He adored Dean’s bottomless-pools-of-chocolate eyes and his impish grin, which appeared when it suited him. Right now it could go either way: pissed off or lovey-dovey.

  “Stir this while I take a piss.” Dean kissed his cheek and handed him the wooden spoon. “And you better open another bottle of wine.”

  He watched Dean walk away, admiring his magnificent butt. They’d been together five years. He hoped it would last forever.

  They had met at an organ recital at Brown University. Goosebumps rose on his arms at the memory: the magnificent sound of the organ in Sayles Hall, a cavernous wood-paneled room with a high ceiling. Dean had been sitting two rows ahead of him. Partway through the concert their eyes met and something clicked. Later, it seemed natural that they should talk over a glass of wine. It also seemed natural that they would go to bed together and, in a matter of weeks, fall deeply in love.

  He set his wine glass on the counter and swirled the spoon through the bubbling sauce. If it burned there’d be hell to pay. The Creole cottage was a hundred years old, but the kitchen was state-of-the-art. Dean wanted to buy it, but given Belinda’s moods, he was reluctant. Three years ago she had suddenly decided to move to New Orleans. She could just as easily decide to move somewhere else.

  Dean crept up behind him and stood on tiptoes to kiss his neck. “Guess what’s for dessert?”

  “What?”

  “Me, if you’re lucky,” Dean chortled, and danced away when Jake pinched his butt.

  “Best dessert I’ll ever have,” he said, and meant
it. Dean flashed an impish grin. Maybe they wouldn’t fight after all.

  “This sauce smells fantastic. I don’t know how you do it.”

  Dean shrugged, his nonchalance belied by the warm glow in his eyes. “I love to cook. If you love something, you should do it well.”

  “You should open your own restaurant.”

  “Never. Then it would be work, not fun.”

  “But you’re so creative and artistic. You should go to art school.”

  “Where?” Dean said, somber-eyed. “There’s no art school in New Orleans.” He picked up his empty wine glass and frowned. “You forgot to open another bottle of wine.”

  He hadn’t forgotten. Too much wine and Dean could get confrontational. While he opened another bottle of chardonnay Dean carried platters of sautéed trout and fresh asparagus to the dining table. He popped the cork on the wine and went in the dining room.

  The oval table looked like something out of House Beautiful. Suffused in the rosy glow of two tall candles, gleaming silverware and fine china sat on a white linen tablecloth. He filled their wine glasses and sat down opposite Dean.

  Dean flashed his impish grin. “As my Portuguese grandmother used to say: If you don’t clean your plate I’ll never cook for you again!”

  He laughed, a laugh quickly silenced by the ring of the telephone.

  “Ooooh, I wonder who that is? Wait. We’re having dinner. The Queen Bee must need Jake to do something for her.”

  Acid burned his stomach. He left the table and went in the kitchen to take the call. Maybe it was his mother. But he knew it wasn’t; on Saturday nights his parents watched Great Performances on PBS.

  When he answered it was Belinda, of course.

  “Jake, where are the plane tickets? I can’t find mine.”

  “In the office on my desk. You were practicing when I left. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “You’re such a dear. Hold on while I make sure I can find them.”

  “Dean and I are eating dinner. The tickets are right on my desk.”

  “Oh. Okay. Sorry to interrupt. Give Dean a hug for me.”

  Fuming, he ended the call. Belinda could be incredibly self-centered. He loved her like the sister he’d never had, but she was beyond irritating sometimes, calling him anytime day or night about inconsequential things.

  When he got back to the table, Dean was topping off his wine glass. “What did she want this time?”

  “She couldn’t find her plane tickets. Sorry for the interruption.”

  Ignoring the food, Dean lit another joint, his expression morose. “Why don’t we get on a plane and go somewhere? You know . . . like the old married couple we’re not.”

  “You know I can’t do that. Not now. Not in my position.”

  “What position is that? Belinda’s step-n-fetch-it? God forbid anyone should think her manager is gay.”

  Unwilling to look at his angry lover, he gazed into the orange-red flames of the candles. They’d had this argument before and the outcome was always the same. Dean went to bed angry. He sat up all night on the sofa, wishing he had the guts to do what Dean wanted.

  “Dean, you know I love you more than anything in the world.”

  “So why can’t we take a vacation? You and Belinda go places together.”

  “That’s business.”

  “Out and about, but not out, right, Jake?” Leaning on the word for emphasis. “People think you’re her lover. That’s what she wants. You’re the decoy. She fucks around with married men, because she’s got no time for a husband. She’s too busy being a star.”

  He gulped his wine. “It’s part of my job, okay? And I love my job.” He’d long ago concluded he was no soloist. He couldn’t handle the performance anxiety. But he loved traveling, loved hobnobbing with orchestra managers, distinguished conductors and celebrated musicians like Andre Previn and Yo-Yo Ma.

  “The money’s good, too.”

  Dean said nothing, piercing him with a belligerent stare.

  “Dean, you know how I feel about Belinda. She’s like a sister—”

  “No! She’s like a mistress only you’re not fucking her!” Dean’s eyes blazed with fury. “You’re thirty-four, Jake. You figured out you were gay when you were ten! What’s the problem?”

  “Easy for you to say. Your parents accept you—”

  “Now they do, but my Catholic mother threw a fit when I came out. It took Dad a year to bring her around, with a lot of help from my sisters.”

  He reached across the table and squeezed Dean’s hand. “You know how my mother is.”

  “No, I don’t.” Dean’s eyes glistened with tears. “You met my family and they love you like a son. I’ve never met yours and I never will.”

  “Dean, you mean everything to me. I want us to be together forever. I love you more than you could possibly know.”

  “I love you too, but I hate that we never go places together.”

  He rose and circled the table, and kissed Dean on the lips. “Come on. Your magnificent meal’s getting cold. Let’s sit down and enjoy it.”

  “We never even go to a movie! You’re too busy fawning over Belinda.”

  “We’ll go tomorrow, I promise. No Belinda, no cell phone. You pick the movie.”

  Dean’s eyes lit up. “It’s a deal! No more wine for me, Jake. No more pot, either, dammit. I’m fresh out. I better go see my supplier on Monday.”

  “Be careful. If you get busted—”

  “I’m always careful and so is the kid. He’s a NOCCA student. If he got caught, they’d expel him.”

  Silently, they devoured the gourmet dinner Dean had prepared, but Jake knew the truce was only temporary. Nine years he’d worked for Belinda. Maybe Dean was right. Time to find another job. He’d be perfectly happy as a church organist. Why not please himself for a change, instead of always making other people happy?

  Dean gazed at him from across the table, his eyes liquid puddles of desire. “Want your Chocolate Tort now?”

  How could he resist those eyes?

  “Forget the tort. You’re my dessert, Dean.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Frank ordered a family-sized bucket of Popeye’s chicken, extra mashed potatoes and cornbread, and swung around to the drive-up window. A siren whooped in the distance, a police car judging from the sound. Just another Saturday night in New Orleans. Thugs didn’t take weekends off.

  He didn’t either, unless he had visitors. No visitor tonight, though.

  An iron fist put a stranglehold on his gut. He wouldn’t be seeing Dana this weekend or ever again. He’d met her during a homicide investigation last year. An adolescent psychotherapist, Dr. Dana Swenson lived in Omaha. Long distance romances were tough enough, brutal since Katrina. Last week she’d called to tell him she had reunited with her ex-husband. Her hot-shot attorney husband, hospitalized with a heart attack, had wooed her back.

  He scratched the jagged scar on his chin, a gash that had taken ten stitches to close on his sixth birthday after a kid dared him to ride no-hands down a hill on his new bike. With predictable results.

  The scar was his emotional barometer, itching whenever his thoughts were in turmoil. The end of a relationship was always gut-wrenching. From past experience, he knew that work was the antidote. It didn’t end the pain but it kept him busy, too busy to fixate on what might have been.

  Two days after the Lakeview robbery they had hysterical headlines in the media, politicians demanding an arrest, and no leads. The cop was in guarded condition, unable to be questioned. Their only description of the robbers was from the clerk: a wide-body gunslinger and a skinny kid with dreads. Useless. The hostage had died after the thugs dumped her out of the getaway car, a fact the media had pounced upon, playing up the black-on-white-crime angle.

  He’d dug up some background on Chantelle. Pre-Katrina she had lived with her mother, a known crack addict, at Iberville. Six years ago her mother had born a son by the man who’d lived with them until Katrina. The man
had taken his son to Birmingham. Chantelle’s mother wound up at the Superdome, then the Convention Center, finally got bused to Houston with the other refugees. Without Chantelle, no record of the girl on file.

  No arrest record, either. That was a plus, but he would never forget her desolate expression when she thanked him. Nobody gave a damn about a teenaged girl on her own or the black kid gunned down at Iberville. His parents were AWOL too, all kinds of teenagers roaming the city these days unsupervised by any adult. Nothing but bad news all around.

  The takeout window slid open, emitting odors of deep-fry cooking oil and chicken. “Big bucket of fried chicken,” said a young black woman in a Popeye’s cap, “extra mashed and cornbread.”

  He paid for the order, set the Popeye’s bag behind the passenger seat and drove off. At the next corner he turned right and parked behind a beat-up Chevy sedan. Angela hopped out and scurried to his car, a slender black woman with corn-rowed hair, dressed in cutoff jeans and a T-shirt.

  She got in and flashed him a smile. “Somethin' smells good.”

  “The usual. Fried chicken, extra mashed potatoes and cornbread.”

  Three years ago Angela had been arrested for hooking, got off with probation and got out of the life. She was a high-school dropout, but she didn’t do drugs, so he’d recruited her to be his CI, told her to get her GED and find a decent job. Now she was twenty-four, with two-year-old twins and no husband, cleaning rooms at a hotel. He never paid her for information, but he often bought her food. She and the boys lived with her mother.

  “Thanks, Frank. The kids love Popeye’s chicken.” She pulled out a cigarette and lit up.

  “How are they doing? They must be getting big.”

  She chuckled. “Doing great. Jamal’s talking up a storm. Rasheed, he’s into everything. Got a mind of his own, like his daddy.”

  The guy that left you holding the bag.

  “What’s shaking on the street these days?”